


Falling for You

by BlessedLunatic



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, F/M, Rumbelle Secret Santa 2016, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 19:47:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8935459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlessedLunatic/pseuds/BlessedLunatic
Summary: Elliot Gold, fresh from a messy divorce and new in town, decides to enroll in a course at the local community college in hopes of gaining some potential job skills.  He hadn't been prepared for professor French, and she definitely hadn't been prepared for him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AnnieVH](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieVH/gifts).



> For AnnieVH - happy Rumbelle Secret Santa!!!

Belle French coughed in the cloud of chalk dust hovering in the air around her, took a step back to survey the board in front of her, and frowned. The lower half of the board was now a (relatively) clean surface of dusty chalk residue, but the upper half frustratingly still had the bits and pieces of mathematical equations and, more frustrating still, ‘WELCOME TO COLLEGE ALGEBRA’ boldly printed across the top. She wasn’t certain, and she made a mental note to check the classroom schedule later, but she was fairly confident she could bet that it was Mr. Carmichael who used this room before her. He taught math, and was at least six-foot five. With a glance over her shoulder to make sure there was nobody around to witness it, she gave a few completely undignified hops and grunts while swiping frantically with the eraser in her hand. Stepping back again, she puffed out her cheeks in an exasperated sigh. She was still at least a foot short of getting the board clean.

Her eyes turned to the desk in the corner of the room, and settled on the rickety old office chair pushed into it. It was on wheels, but she was pretty sure they locked and would prevent her from rolling herself across the room if she stood on it. Retrieving the chair, she clicked the wheel locks in place and shook it back and forth a few times. One of the wheels didn’t seem to lock at all, and another was a little loose, but she was confident that she could stand on it with minimal wobbling. She kicked off her heels and kneeled on the chair, then slowly rose on shaky legs. _This is probably a bad idea_ , the little voice in the back of her mind niggled, but she ignored it as she had so many times before. The chair was sturdy enough, especially if she jammed her knees into the back of it to hold it against the wall when it started to swivel a bit. Easy-peasy.

Smiling as she brushed the eraser over the equations with brisk, dusty strokes and congratulating herself on her resourcefulness, she became aware of a presence in the doorway appearing in her peripheral vision. A student, most likely. Class was set to begin in ten minutes, and someone always showed up early, especially on the first day. “Hello!” she called out, cheerily, “be with you in just a second!”

“Um,” a quiet, unsure voice answered, and from the corner of her eye she could see him glance from the door number, to the schedule in his hand, and then to the board she was currently erasing. “Is this...Technical Writing and Communication?” He had an accent she couldn’t immediately place. Scottish? Maybe Irish? He hadn’t spoken enough for her to tell.

“Yep!” she assured as she swept out “Basic College Algebra” with one firm stroke and then hopped back down to the floor, wiping chalk dust on her skirt. “Sorry for the confusion, we have a math professor who must’ve been a skyscraper in a previous life.”

“Ah,” the student nodded in sympathy...or, she thought, turning to really look at him for the first time, empathy, more like, judging by the size of him. Belle quickly assessed him as she slipped her heels back on. An older, non-traditional student. Older than her by at least ten or fifteen years. That wasn’t entirely unusual for the community college, especially not for evening classes. His hair was on the long side - shaggy, but not unkempt, his face was lightly stubbled, and he wore a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt that looked like they’d seen better days. He was also leaning heavily on a battered wooden cane.

“What’s your name?” she asked as she unlocked the chair wheels and rolled it back to the desk, then started rifling through her giant tote bag. She had her class roster in here somewhere.

“Gold,” he replied, still standing in the doorway. “Uh...Elliot Gold.”

“Ah-ha!” she found the roster and held it up, noting that he’d jumped a little at her exclamation. Oops. Skittish, was he? She offered him an apologetic smile, then turned to scan the list. “Let’s see...Gold, Gold, ah, there you are!” She met his eyes and smiled. “Well, Mr. Gold, you’re in the right place. You can come on in and take a seat.”

He nodded and shuffled into the room, choosing a desk in the front but on the side of the room farthest from her desk. Belle frowned. That wouldn’t do if he continued to speak as softly as he had been so far. “Is this your first semester? I don’t recall seeing you around before.” She wouldn’t have, more than likely, since she split her time between her job at the library and adjuncting at the college. She didn’t spend much time on campus outside of the couple classes she taught each semester, so unless she’d had him in class before she was unlikely to have bumped into him. That information she kept to herself, however. She was blatantly fishing for information - trying to get him to open up a little. He seemed so closed off, and this was a communication class, after all.

“Yes,” he nodded. “I’m fairly new in town. Moved here from Boston a few months back. I thought some college courses couldn’t hurt. I’m, um,” he dropped his eyes, looking ashamed, “working at the cannery right now. It’s not something I want to do forever.”

_Scottish, definitely Scottish_ , she confirmed as he’d spoken, though his accent seemed softened from his time away. And, as she moved over toward his seat and plopped herself down on top of the desk next to him, her nose detected a faint whiff of fishiness that seemed to permeate the air around him. Was that why he’d been keeping his distance?

He must have caught something in her face that said she’d noticed the smell, because he quickly looked away again, redness tinting his stubbly cheeks in embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” he sighed, “I have to come straight from work to get here on time, and I don’t have much of a chance to clean up. The smell never really goes away, but maybe I should have enrolled in a later class so I could at least change my clothes beforehand.”

Belle frowned. “Hey,” she said gently but firmly, making sure he looked at her before continuing, “there’s nothing wrong with working at the cannery. My friend’s fiance has worked there for years. But it’s somewhat less than glamourous and I can see how it might not be for everyone. If you want to do something else with your life, then the important thing is that you’re here, making the effort.” She smiled and softened her tone. “And the air itself in half this town smells like fish, it’s doubtful anyone will care, and, honestly, I prefer the faint ‘parfum de sardine’ over the body spray some of these college boys douse themselves with.”

That earned her a grunt that could almost pass for a laugh from him. “Yes, I’d noticed that.”

“I’m not sure who they think they’re impressing.” She shook her head, still grinning. “So where are you from originally?”

“Glasgow. I’ve been in the states about four years now.” He fiddled with his cane nervously, an action that didn’t go unnoticed by Belle. He didn’t supply any additional information, so she prodded a little. Just a little.

“Glasgow to Storybrooke by way of Boston?” she asked, and he nodded in the affirmative. “Why Storybrooke?”

His expression tightened, and he appeared to draw into himself. After a moment he replied, “It’s different. From Boston. I needed...a change.”

Sensing that he didn’t want to discuss it further, she decided to stop prodding into his personal life. For now, anyway. “It certainly is different. I used to think I wanted to live someplace bigger and faster-paced, but at this point in my life I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be. There’s a lot of character to this town.”

A feeble smile quirked his lips. “That there is.”

Thinking the conversation was over, she was about to move back to her desk to prep for the students who would be wandering in any minute now, when his voice stopped her.

“What about you?” he asked, “You don’t exactly sound local.”

“Melbourne,” she answered, grinning. “I’ve been here since I was twelve, but the accent never did manage to go away.”

“Oh,” he sighed in what sounded like disappointment, but the glimmer in his eyes betrayed mirth. “You’re institutionalized, then. Pity, I was hoping to have finally met a fellow immigrant who I could mock the bloody Americans with.”

She burst into surprised laughter as his face lit up and the most authentic and genuine smile she’d seen from him spread across his face. He was rather handsome when he smiled, she thought, out of nowhere. It was infectious and made her feel a little warm, a thought she decided not to pursue or dwell on. She shook her head to clear it a little, and returned his impish grin. “I should introduce you to my father. Any criticism you can have, I’ve already heard it, I’m sure.”

Before their conversation could go any further, two students walked in, chattering away, followed by a group of four more, effectively shattering the quiet in the classroom and indicating that class was about to start.

“Well I guess it’s that time,” Belle nodded her head toward the clock on the wall as more students filed in behind her. “I think I’m going to enjoy having you in class, Mr. Gold.”

He returned her smile and tilted his head, looking all the world like a curious puppy. “I think I’m going to enjoy being in your class, Miss French.”

Their eyes locked for a moment as she stood to move back toward her desk, and that warm feeling threatened to make another grin erupt on her face. She suppressed it, breaking contact to walk away.

“All right, class!” she called out above the chatter, smiling when it ceased. “Welcome to Technical Writing and Communication. I’m Miss French. If you’re not supposed to be taking this course, you’re in the wrong room, and you should get out while you still can!” A few chuckles came from the students, but nobody got up to leave. She picked up the roster and scanned the classroom. “When I call your name, please raise your hand and look up so I can start to put faces with names. A few of you I already know - yes, Mr. Andrews, I’m looking at you, and yes, you’re first on my roster - which could be either good or bad, depending on how well you performed in my other classes!” That earned her a few more chuckles, and she began reading off the rest of the student names. When she got to Gold, he timidly raised his hand and flashed her another of those meek smiles, and her stomach did a very uncalled for little flip.

There wasn’t much chance she was going to forget HIS name, or his face.

 

* * *

 

 

Belle walked through the door of her apartment that evening feeling exhausted, hungry, and overwhelmed. The first week of class always wore her out physically and mentally - the later schedule, having to talk in front of a classroom, the extra work involved - but she always adjusted quickly. She kicked off her shoes, threw her bag in the corner by the door, and stretched, feeling something pop in her neck.

“Hey, babe!” Gaston called out from the living room. “How was your day?”

She wandered in and found him in the recliner, Monday night football on the TV in front of him, a beer in his hand. “Fine,” she replied. “Typical first day. I’m beat.” She plunked herself down on the arm of his chair, snuggling in as he wound the arm holding his beer around her. It wasn’t being offered, but she snatched it out of his hand anyway, raised the bottle to her lips, and chugged it down. “Mmm,” she sighed, then let out a very unladylike belch. “I needed that.”

“You know,” Gaston said, amusement coloring his words, “you could have gotten a brand new bottle all of your own from the fridge instead of stealing mine.”

“Yeah, but that would involve moving,” she mumbled from where she’d burrowed into his neck. She just wanted to rest there for a moment, but the loud grumble from her stomach announced it had other ideas. “I’m starving, have you eaten?”

“Uh…” Gaston looked a little guilty. “Me and some of the guys stopped for pizza after work. I brought you home the leftovers. Sorry, babe, I would’ve made you something, but you know how bad I am at cooking.”

“S’ok,” she mumbled, still not having moved or opened her eyes, “leftover pizza sounds amazing right now.” Belle stayed put, hoping that maybe if she didn’t move he’d take the hint and would go get it for her.

“It’s in the fridge,” was all he said.

Looked like she was getting it herself. That was fine. She supposed it was thoughtful of him to bring it home to her in the first place. She couldn’t complain, really. He was good to her, if not a little dense and dull sometimes. They’d been together for twelve years, since high school, and this, she thought, was how things went when you’d been with someone for so long. Routine. It was fine. Comfortable, even.

With a tremendous groan of effort, she sat up and raised herself to her feet, yawned, and then padded into the kitchen to heat up her dinner.

“Babe?” Gaston’s voice followed her, “could you get me another beer while you’re up?”

Yep. Everything was fine.

That night as Belle was falling asleep she found her mind wandering to her new student, Elliot Gold. There was something about him that piqued her curiosity, and it wasn’t just that she’d felt drawn to those deep, soulful eyes of his. He seemed out of place and unsure of himself. A wandering soul, lost and lonely. _Oh, stop being dramatic_ , she chided herself. She couldn’t possibly know if he was lonely in the ten minutes she’d talked to him, and here she was, ruminating on his life story as though he was a character in a book. She had to stop this tendency to over-romanticize everything. He was a student who seemed interesting. It wasn’t as though she was going to follow him home and discover some horrible secret in his past that made him as sad and tired as he seemed. Of course he was tired - he was just getting off a no-doubt long and exhausting shift at the cannery. But there was something...she could see it in his eyes. A hint of despair mixed with desperation and a steely glint of determination.

She wouldn’t pretend that she didn’t want to know more about him, but it was the spark of interest she had in him as a person that made her feel drawn into his story, that was all. She wasn’t about to go and have a crush on a student she’d just met. That wasn’t something she did, ever. And it wasn’t as though she was interested anyway. She had Gaston. Things were good.

At the thought of her boyfriend she glanced over at his sleeping form beside her. He’d started snoring, and she knew from experience it would start to increase in volume in a few minutes. With an exasperated but affectionate sigh, she gently elbowed him in the ribs until he rolled over onto his side and his snores faded. He’d slept through her nudging, just as he always did.


	2. Chapter 2

Storybrooke in the morning had a certain peaceful tranquility to it, and Gold took a deep breath of the cool humid air before exhaling with a contented sigh. He liked mornings. The fog often settled along the rooftops of the coastal town, and in the quiet it was easier to hear the gentle sounds of the ocean and the call of sea birds. It reminded him of home - a place he hadn’t been back to visit once in the four years he’d been living in the states. Not that there was anything there for him anymore, and going back now would mean facing the shame of what his life had become. He still had his boy though, when he actually got to see him, and for that he’d stay as close to Boston and Milah as he could without being so close that people might know him. He didn’t need the painful reminders, and he didn’t need pity. 

But he did miss Scotland, much as he’d deny it out of some prideful attempt to convince others he’d chosen his current life. Often during his breaks at the cannery he’d stand on the dock and stare out at the ocean, enjoying the way the salty breeze caressed his face and imagining he could see his home country across the water if he squinted. When the melancholy was at its worst, he found himself wishing for a cigarette, momentarily regretting the decision to quit. He’d done it for Neal. The sight of his tiny newborn son, screaming to announce his arrival into existence, had given him an abrupt reminder of his own mortality. He wouldn’t willingly give up a minute of his life if it meant one more minute with his boy, and he’d vowed then and there to change his unhealthy habits. He’d quit smoking on the spot.

Milah had been proud of him, she’d said. He’d still basked in her praise back then - so proud himself at his beautiful and accomplished wife. He’d worked in one of the few remaining shipyards in Glasgow since he was sixteen, and though he’d never been ashamed of what he did, it was still a bit of a surprise that the gorgeous and classy girl he’d met in a pub had been charmed by him. She’d been studying law at the university when they’d met. She was out celebrating the end of a big exam, so he’d bought her a drink. Several drinks and a conversation later, and phone numbers had been exchanged. Long phone calls led to dates, and dates led to spending alternate weekends at each other’s flats getting little accomplished outside of bed. By the end of the year they were more or less living together.

They’d been married that summer - she was twenty-one and he twenty-six, and he’d been so happy. Over the next few years he’d supported them while she finished her degree and training, and then she’d landed a position at a major international law firm (much to her surprise, but not his - he knew she was brilliant). He’d never minded that she made more money than he did, and would gladly give a knock in the head to anyone who had anything to say about it. She was amazing, and in five year’s time they’d moved into a nicer house and had enough saved up to live a comfortable, if not extravagant, life. When she told him she was pregnant it was the happiest news he could have imagined. He’d always wanted a family. When Neal was born Gold didn’t stop smiling for a week, even though he’d been exhausted by the lack of sleep a newborn brought. He had the perfect idyllic life, and nothing could bring him down. He had an accomplished wife who loved him, a beautiful baby boy, and a newfound sense of self-preservation for the sake of his son. It was everything he’d ever dreamed.

And then the accident had happened.

A crane had collapsed and knocked over some scaffolding, and he hadn’t quite managed to get out of the way in time. He’d been trapped under a pile of rubble for an hour, panicked and in pain, before they’d managed to clear it away. When they’d finally pulled his battered and bruised body out and he’d tried to stand, the agony that had shot through him had caused him to lose consciousness. He’d awoken in the hospital to learn that, although most of his injuries were superficial and would heal, his ankle had been crushed and twisted to the point that even after extensive surgery he would likely never fully be able to walk on it again.

That was when it all started to go downhill. Months of physical therapy and frustration at his body's new limitations had made him irritable and snappish. When Neal cried in the middle of the night, he could no longer soothe him, since the boy would only calm by walking him around the house and Gold was not yet confident enough to use a cane while holding his son for fear that he’d drop him. The task fell to Milah, who he was certain was beginning to resent him.

Then the doctor declared that his ankle was as rehabilitated as it was ever going to be, his injury compensation had run out, and he’d been left unable to return to his old line of work. As he’d been wondering what he was going to do, Milah had announced that there was an opportunity for her to be transferred to a partner firm in Boston. which she was considering. The pay would be better and there would be more opportunities for advancement, which would help. As much as he didn’t want to move to the States, he’d begrudgingly admitted that it sounded wonderful for her and for their family. And so, with Neal barely a year old, they’d packed up and moved across the ocean. 

He had expected things to get better, but they only got worse. He stayed home with Neal while Milah worked, and she began to resent him for the time he got with their son and for the way the boy often wanted his father over his mother. Gold had tried to explain that the lad was still a baby and didn’t mean anything personal by it, but it only caused her to snap back at him the usual scathing remarks about how she had to be gone so much in order to support them, and that she was the one buying Neal his food and his toys. The remarks hurt, but he’d taken them without rebuttal. 

The next few years went on in much the same way. Milah’s resentment grew, and she spent more and more time putting in late hours at the office. For them, she’d said, but she no longer seemed to care much for her family. When she was home, she was on the phone discussing work, or doing paperwork in her home office with the door shut. Occasionally he’d get a glimpse of the loving and joyful wife he’d once known, but those moments were few and far between, and it became clear that they couldn’t continue on in the way they were going. Neal had been nearly five and he barely saw his mother. When he’d brought up the idea of counseling, it had sparked the biggest fight they’d had in all their years of marriage. She screamed that she had no time, and it wasn’t her fault that she was stuck supporting a pathetic invalid and a kid who hated her, he had shouted back that Neal didn’t hate her - he loved her - he just didn’t know how to talk to her since he barely spent time with her. She’d called him all sorts of things that he didn’t want to remember and he’d taken it, but when she tried to blame Neal for her ineptitude as a parent he’d had enough.

And then, finally, the truth had come out. The long hours Milah spent at the office weren’t spent doing work, but rather her coworker. Killian Jones, the smooth-talking Englishman who’d also worked alongside Milah in Glasgow, had been having an affair with his wife for the better part of four years. Gold hadn’t even suspected. It had been Jones’ urging that caused Milah to apply for the Boston job, so they could continue to “work” together, and it was him on the other line of all those long phone calls. She told him how much better Jones was than him in every single way. He’d made something of his life, he had ambition and confidence, and he could fuck her like she wanted, without having to constantly be careful because of his damn ankle. Milah told him everything while he’d stood in shock - his vision blurring, his ears ringing, and the feeling like someone had just wrapped their hand around his heart and squeezed. He’d felt like this once before, when he’d been trapped under all that rubble, and he recognized it as a panic attack. His trembling hands had dropped his cane at that point, and he’d collapsed to the ground, numb. Milah had just laughed, called him pathetic again, and then stated that she’d wanted a divorce.

And that was when his life had well and truly turned to shit. She’d fought for custody of Neal just to spite him - just to attempt to force the boy into a real relationship with a mother who’d never previously bothered to try. The court would side with her, she’d said, since he didn’t have a job or income on his own. She was correct, though he was granted visitation rights. Begrudgingly, she deigned to agree to separation for the time being, and to draw out the divorce process until he could obtain his own work visa or apply for citizenship if he planned to stay in the country.

And so, he was still here. Hobbling down Main Street in the place he now called home. He wouldn’t give Milah the satisfaction of having him well and truly out of her life, even if he did wish sometimes that he could just go back to Glasgow. That wasn’t something he could do to Neal. He’d found Storybrooke while searching for jobs within a few hours of Boston, and he’d immediately fallen in love with the little town. It was quiet and charming, and he enjoyed being on the coast. The cannery job wasn’t glamorous, but they treated him well. He had a stool to sit on while he filleted fish on an assembly line all day, and the benefits were good. It wasn’t a permanent solution though. He could barely afford his meager apartment as it was, and he needed something better if he was ever going to have any chance of gaining primary custody of Neal. He needed his boy.

The college credits, he hoped, would help with that. He didn’t know if he could manage to finish an actual degree, but he was hoping the courses might help him qualify for a desk job of some sort. Unfortunately he only had the time and money for one course per term, so he’d chosen a technical communication course. He could count on one hand the number of emails he’d sent in his life, and his knowledge of computers was abysmal. If he could gain some general competency with how to communicate effectively in the modern world, he could then see about some more advanced courses and try to pinpoint exactly what it was he’d like to try to do with his life. Forty felt too old to be starting over, especially with so few qualifications.

Gold stopped in front of his destination - the Storybrooke Public Library - and was pleased to see that it was open. He hadn’t yet managed to visit the library in the time he’d lived here, but his latest class assignment involved typing, and he hoped the library could help with that. He could barely afford tuition let alone a computer, but he’d been told the library had them free for use.

He stepped through the door to find himself being greeted by a familiar face from behind the circulation desk.

“Mr. Gold! Hello!”

“Miss French?” he blinked, confused, and before he could stop himself he blurted out “what are you doing here?” She laughed at his confusion, but it wasn’t a cruel sound. It was utterly delightful, actually. He could feel the blood rushing to his face, regardless.

“I work here!” she smiled, eyes soft as she no doubt had noticed his embarrassment. “It’s what I do, “ she said with a shrug, “mild-mannered librarian by day, equally mild-mannered adjunct professor by night.”

“Oh,” he said, at a loss for any other reply.

“I love teaching,” she continued, “and I love the library. Neither one pays the bills on its own, and, well...I have bills to pay!”

He nodded grimly. “I know the feeling.”

“So!” she said as she tapped her hands on the desk in a little rhythm, “what can I do for you this morning?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, it concerns your class.”

“Oh?”

“I need to type the latest assignment, and I’m afraid I don’t have a computer. I was hoping I’d be able to use one here.”

“Absolutely!” she smiled. “Do you have a library card already?” 

“Um, no.” He shifted uncomfortably, unsure why a negative answer felt like a wrong one - like he was disappointing her in some way - and unsure why that bothered him as much as it did. “This is my first time here, actually. I...haven’t had much of a chance to stop by yet.”

Her warm smile never faded. “That’s fine! You’ll have to have one in order to log in to the computer, but it’ll only take a few minutes…” She ducked away and began rummaging around on the shelf under the desk. “If I can find the forms…” she muttered in mild irritation. “Ah ha!” her head popped back up and she slapped a piece of paper onto the desk. A tendril of hair had escaped from the messy bun it was tied up in, and she absently shook her head to clear it from her face. He found himself suddenly overcome with the urge to reach out and gently tuck it back behind her ear, and the ease with which he could picture himself doing exactly that shocked him. He was not by nature a tactile person. Gripping his cane a little tighter, he tamped down the sudden inexplicable urge to become one. 

Oblivious to his inner turmoil, Miss French pushed the slip of paper toward him and placed a pen on top of it. “Just fill that out, and I’ll get your card ready. Then I’ll show you how to log in, and you’ll be all set!”

When he slid the completed form back to her a few minutes later, she presented him with a plastic card and a sheet of paper explaining the borrowing and renewal process, the fine rates for overdue books, when he’d need to renew the card, and how to use it to borrow electronic books from online, something he was unlikely to ever do. She then led him to a row of computers and showed him how to scan his card to gain access and how to open the word processing program when he sheepishly admitted he wasn’t sure what he was doing. With a final request to please let her know if he had any questions or needed any help, she left him to it.

 

Gold had been typing for nearly twenty minutes, and had very little to show for it. He was going to have to consider some typing classes, he sourly admitted to himself. The two-fingered hunt and peck method he’d been utilizing was not going to cut it if he wanted to assure a potential employer that he could do things in a timely manner. It was incredibly inefficient.

His attention was captured by movement out of the corner of his eye, and he looked up to see Miss French shelving some books in an area across from him. As she turned back to the book cart, her eye caught his and she smiled. _God, her smile is gorgeous_ , he thought to himself as the sight of it caused a warm tingle to spread through his chest. And those eyes. He’d never known eyes could be so blue. He wasn’t sure where these feelings were coming from, though he couldn’t deny she was beautiful. But she was his professor, for fuck’s sake, and he was pretty certain he hadn’t had a crush on a teacher since Miss McKennon in grade six. Belle French was too young, too sweet, and too kind for an old pathetic cripple like him. She was sunshine and laughter, and he was a grouchy rain cloud that ruined everyone’s day. He was also certain she had a boyfriend - the lumbering hulk that he’d observed accompanying her to breakfast at Granny’s on several occasions.

His musings were cut short as the object of his thoughts came to stand behind him and observe his work. 

“Not bad, Mr. Gold.” She paused, hesitating. “You know,” she began as she worried her bottom lip between her teeth, and hell, but that was adorable. “We have programs on the computers that teach typing, if you were interested in improving your technique. You could come on the weekends and work on it when you have time.”

He’d been so busy staring at her lip, that it took him a second to realize it was his turn to talk. He felt his face flush. “Oh, um...yes, that would probably be for the best. I’m afraid I’m not very good at this.”

“It’s fine,” she smiled, and then placed her hands on his shoulders and leaned closer - so close he could smell the fruity scent of her shampoo, and practically purred in his ear, “I bet there are other things you’re good at.”

“Wh-what?” he choked out, flustered at her nearness and by what appeared for all the world to be flirting. “I mean, I...yes, but…” He had suddenly forgotten how to make words.

Her hands slid from his shoulders and down his arms before coming to rest over his own hands. She’d leaned forward, and he was doing all he could not to notice the way her breasts were pressing against his back as her fingers gently caressed his. 

“You have such lovely hands, Mr. Gold,” she hummed as she laced her fingers through the spaces between his, sending sparks flying through him at the feel of her touch on the thin, sensitive skin. “Working man’s hands,” she sighed the words directly into his ear. “So rough, but so gentle. Hmm, the things I bet you could do with these hands.”

He had no idea what was happening, but it was getting very difficult to think when all the blood had rushed from his brain to his trousers. “M-miss French?” he stammered, not at all sure of what else to say.

“Shhhhh,” she whispered, “call me Belle.” And before he could say anything further, her lips pressed to his neck, and how did she know that spot _right there_ would send him reeling? 

“Belle!” he gasped as she continued to work that wonderful spot on his neck with her lips and teeth and tongue, so focused on the feeling that he’d somehow not noticed she had moved her hands to his thighs.

“You’re so tense, Mr. Gold,” she pulled away from his neck long enough to whisper in his ear, as her deft fingers dug into the muscles of his thighs. His breath hitched as her hands worked - kneading then caressing, slowly inching her way higher. He forgot how to breathe entirely when her hand cupped him through his trousers. “Yes, so tense,” he could practically hear the grin in her voice. “How can we possibly relax you, hmmm?”

And suddenly her fingers were undoing his belt, popping the button of his jeans, and sliding under the layers of denim and cotton to grip him beneath his boxers. “Belle!’ he cried in a strangled gasp. “What are you…?”

“It’s okay, Mr. Gold. Just relax,” she breathed as she lowered his zipper, pushed his boxers down, and pulled his erect cock free.

Frantically, his eyes shot around the library for other patrons. They were hardly in a secluded area, and he’d never been an exhibitionist. “This is...you can’t...someone will see!” he choked out, though as her fingers lightly stroked him he began to care less and less about who saw what.

“There’s no one else here,” she soothed him with a kiss to the shell of his ear. “Let me take care of you.” 

Her rhythm increased, her grip tightening, and oh, fuck, but it had been _so long_ , and he knew he was about to embarrass himself. 

“I…” he began, but it turned into a moan as her hand gave an unexpected little twist on the upstroke. “Belle,” he pleaded, “I’m going to...you have to…”

“Shhhh, I’ve got you. Come for me, Elliot.”

The sound of his first name on her lips propelled him over the edge so fast he saw stars. “BELLE!” he shouted, utterly wrecked, as he came so hard his hips rose up out of his chair...

...only to land on rough, tangled cotton sheets. The library faded away as Gold’s eyes fluttered open to the sight of his dark bedroom. The vivid realism of the dream rapidly began to fade as awareness set in. He was gripping the sheets in his fists, he was covered in sweat, and the uncomfortable damp feeling in his boxers told him exactly what had just happened. He’d come in his sleep like a bloody teenager. The euphoria turned to embarrassment as he recalled the fantasy his subconscious had played out for him. He _had_ gone to the library earlier that day, and Miss French had helped him get a library card and log into the computer, but everything that happened after that had been thanks to his overactive imagination. 

Groaning in shame, he kicked off the covers and rolled out of bed to clean up and get a fresh pair of boxers. He’d not had a wet dream in ages, but he hadn’t had sex in ages either, and he’d not been at all in any sort of mood to indulge in self-pleasure in months, so it was only natural that his body would take care of things itself. Still though...he was going to have to face Miss French in class, and he wasn’t sure how he was going to look at her without recalling the way her lips felt against his skin. It was embarrassing, it was highly inappropriate, and he felt like a fucking pervert.

Gold got very little sleep that night. 


	3. Chapter 3

“I really need to remember to get a stool,” Belle muttered to herself as she once again climbed up onto her desk chair, as she’d done at least once a week so far this semester. She could tell when it was the students doing math problems on the board, because she could reach it to erase. When Mr. Carmichael wrote, he insisted upon using the entire board, especially the very top. And really, how rude was it to leave your classroom without erasing the board for the next class? That was against all common teaching protocol, not to mention basic human respect.

She “hmmph!”ed in frustration as she stretched to reach the edge of the board without having to move her chair. As she was pondering the best way to anonymously make a suggestion that all professors be encouraged to leave classrooms the way they found them and to please clean the chalk boards, the locking mechanism on her chair wheel gave out with a snap and she suddenly found herself being swiveled and launched into the air. Her arms flailed as she fell backward, and she closed her eyes, wincing as she braced for impact with the floor.

“Ummph!” the floor said as she hit it, and, no, that couldn’t be right. It was also softer and lumpier than a floor reasonably should be. She rolled over and opened her eyes to find that she was lying half on top of Mr. Gold, who must have tried to catch her and collapsed under the impact of her chair-launched body.

Their eyes locked, and Belle found herself momentarily unable to speak or move. Awareness crept up on her slowly and not everywhere at once. She became aware of his rapid shallow breathing as his chest rose and fell underneath her, followed by awareness that her own breathing matched his. The way she was straddling one of his legs was the next thing she noticed, followed by the tingle of warmth that was radiating through her at how good his body felt under hers. She tore her gaze from his eyes long enough to glance down at his parted lips before flitting back up, intrigued by the way his eyes had widened a bit at the direction her glance had gone. His eyes really were gorgeous - so soulful and expressive. Belle involuntarily shifted against him a bit, and so utterly lost was she that it took her a second to realize that the look that came over his face at her movement was a wince of pain. _Oh, god, his leg!_

Reality rushed in and threw cold water on the moment as she hurriedly scrambled to roll off of him and sit up. “Oh, Mr. Gold, are you okay? I’m so sorry!”

“I’ll live,” he replied with a shaky little laugh, “are you hurt?”

“Just my pride, thanks to you.” She could feel her face redden as the entire situation fully caught up to her.

“Well,” he said with a wince as he struggled to sit up, “let it never be said that my timing isn’t impeccable.” He was glancing around, and she realized he was looking for his cane. It was lying on the floor near the doorway, where he must have dropped it in his haste to catch her.

She quickly rose to her feet and retrieved it for him, then bowed and held it out to him with both hands, as though presenting a sword. “My hero.”

He snorted as he took the cane, but there was a little smile on his blushing face. “Your knight in fading flannel.”

Belle extended her hand to him as she laughed, surprised a bit as she always was when he said something genuinely funny. So often he seemed lost and so unsure of himself, stammering and stumbling through conversation, that on the rare occasions where his confidence and wit shone through it left her feeling a little off guard. He was definitely a bit of a mystery, and she was dying to figure him out.

Mr. Gold grasped her offered hand and she helped pull him to his feet. Try as he might, he couldn’t hide the grimace of pain that twisted across his face as he gingerly tested his weight on his injured leg. Was it his knee? His ankle? The foot itself? He hadn’t ever mentioned his reason for needing the cane, but it was obvious that whatever it was, it hurt him. “Are you sure you’re okay? I feel so stupid, and you really didn’t have to use yourself to break my fall like that.”

The look he gave her was nothing short of incredulous with a dash of offense, and he pulled his hand out of hers with a little more force than was strictly necessary. “What was I supposed to do - watch you hit the floor?” He snorted again, and looked away. “My ankle has been through worse. I’ll be fine. I wasn’t about to stand there and do nothing.” His mouth turned down into a scowl. “I’m not some useless invalid.”

Well. Clearly she’d unintentionally hit a nerve. “I’m sorry,” she said, gently. “I never meant to imply that you were. I was going for self-deprecating there, but I think I missed the mark a little. Believe me when I say I’m not trying to be at all patronizing. It was really very kind of you to throw yourself toward a projectile professor.”

A small, but genuine, smile quirked his lips before he ran his hand over his face and sighed. “No, I know you didn’t mean anything by it. It was rude of me to snap at you, I’m sorry. Just...old wounds.” Belle got the impression he wasn’t referring to his ankle alone.

“Well, now we seem to be stuck in an apology loop, so let’s stop being sorry and move on. Thanks again for coming to my rescue. I owe you one.”

He smiled again, but it was a pained, vulnerable smile that made him look sad instead of happy. “Just continue to grade my assignments with your usual generosity, and we’ll call it even.”

“Generosity?” Belle frowned, brow furrowed in confusion. “You do realize that your work is actually excellent, don’t you?”

His silence and his refusal to meet her eyes told her that no, he didn’t. Before she could say anything else, the sound of students in the hall alerted her that class was about to start. “We’ll talk later, okay?” She didn’t wait for him to answer, as it was not exactly meant to be a request.

He shuffled off to his seat, his limp more pronounced than usual.

 

She caught him after class, before he could leave. “Give me a minute here, and I’ll walk out with you, okay?” He nodded, and waited patiently while she gathered up her things and stuffed them into her tote bag. As a librarian she felt she really ought to be more organized than she was, but as a part-time professor she figured she was allowed to be a little bit stereotypically scattered. She shrugged on her jacket and threw the bag over her shoulder, then motioned for Gold to lead the way out of the room.

Once in the hallway, they caught sight of the downpour that was happening on the other side of the building’s glass doors. “Ick” Belle crinkled her nose up at the rain. “This is going to be horrible to drive in.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Gold replied, tone flat. “If it’s okay with you, I think I’ll stay inside for a bit and see if I can wait out the worst of it. I don’t relish getting soaked on the way home.”

“Wait...you walked?”

He shrugged, then ducked his head and looked away. “I don’t have a car.”

“Oh.” It wasn’t a large town, and that wasn’t terribly shocking, but still, with his ankle? “Do you walk everywhere?”

“Well,” he said with a wry smile, still not looking directly at her, “I take the bus to Boston when I go to see my son, but, yes, I walk everywhere in town.” He shrugged again, like it was nothing to walk the several miles from one end of town to the other with a cane and a bad ankle. “I live close to the cannery, and I rarely go to the far end of town, so it’s not so bad.”

One new piece of information in his explanation rang in her ears, drowning out the rest. “You have a son?”

At that he did finally look back at her, his entire face lighting up with pride. “Aye,” he smiled. “Neal. He’s five, and smart as a whip.”

The obvious deep affection he had for his son made her smile as well. “And he’s in Boston?”

Gold nodded. “Yes, with his mother. For now.”

Belle didn’t ask him to elaborate. It seemed a deeply personal subject, and if he wanted to talk about it he would. But that didn’t stop her imagination from conjuring up an image of him smiling and happy with a grinning little boy in his arms, or maybe riding on his shoulders, and her heart melted a little.

“Well,” she moved to change the subject, “Come on - I’m giving you a ride home.”

“You don’t have to - “

“Noooope!” she cut off his protest and ‘tsk’d’ at him. “It’s happening. I’m not about to let my rescuer walk home in this monsoon on a bad ankle that I helped further damage by falling on him. What kind of ungrateful monster would I be?”

“Well, I guess, when you put it that way…”

She smiled, and he returned it, eyes shining.

Once in the car, he pointed her in the right direction and then a long and slightly awkward silence descended, the only sound the ‘fwip fwip’ of the wipers cutting through the rain. Belle had to break it.

“So, I wasn’t kidding earlier,” she took her eyes off the road for a quick second to make sure he was paying attention to her, “Your work really is excellent.”

He snorted. “It’s mediocre at best, surely.”

“Really? You’re going to argue with the professor on this? I promise you, you consistently turn in quality work.” She darted her eyes to the right to surreptitiously watch him out of her peripheral vision. He still wasn’t looking in her direction, but the slight tilt of his head indicated she’d caught his interest. “That informational flyer assignment that you handed in last week? Yours was honestly the best in the class. You’ve got a real eye for detail.”

Gold let out a short little laugh and shook his head.

“What?” She asked, confused by his reaction.

“Nothing, just a memory. My aunts used to say the same thing. They were seamstresses, and I used to help out in their shop when I was young. My father was never around, and they basically raised me. Used to say I had ‘such talent! Such an eye for detail!’” He put on a voice that must have been mimicking theirs. Belle smiled.

“And you didn’t believe them?”

“I just assumed they were being aunties.” He shrugged. “They praised my artwork, raved over the practice stitches I did on scraps in the shop, told me I had real talent...you know. The usual. Just making a kid feel good.”

“Well,” Belle smiled, “I’m going to have to agree with them. I haven’t seen you sew anything, but you definitely have a talent for art, and for using space on a page efficiently and effectively. Have you considered looking into design? Graphic arts, maybe?”

She caught his disbelieving sideways glance. “You’ve seen how I am with computers.”

“Oh, stop, you’re catching on very quickly,” she smiled, “and anyway, it’s not as though you’d need to know everything about how the computer works, just how to use the software.

He was quiet, so she went on. “Or, you know, if you think you still have some sewing skills and you’d be interested in doing something with that, there's currently only one tailor in town - old Mr. Jensen who owns the dry cleaners - and he only does suits. If you did dress alterations I can promise you I know a few people who would give you business.”

He snorted again. “I used to build ships, and you think I should start sewing dresses?”

“Why not, if you've got the aptitude for it? Of course, it all depends on what you like. If that's not something you want to do, don't do it.” A thought occurred to her. “The pawn shop is currently vacant since the previous owner died. She had no family and nobody to take over the store or the junk inside, so the city is currently in possession of it. You could open up a shop. Heck, you could even keep it a pawn shop, and do sewing in the back.”

Gold laughed, but it wasn't the harsh bitter laugh he’d let out earlier. “I can see the sign now: ‘Mr. Gold’s - Pawn Shop and Dress Alterations’”

“And you could design the sign yourself, plus organize the displays in the shop and the shop window. Hey, you could even include graphic design in your list of services! It wouldn't be the strangest shop Storybrooke has seen.”

He shook his head, chuckling. “I’m sure. Oh, uh - that’s my building,” he pointed, “coming up on the right there.”

Belle slowed the car and pulled up to the curb, noting that building had definitely seen better days. There had been talk at the last public city meeting of leveling this entire row of old apartment buildings to build new ones in an effort to revitalize this section of town. It was near the cannery, he was right about that, but this part of town wasn’t known for being the most visitor-friendly. Storybrooke was trying to become more of a tourist destination, and it didn’t do to have a “bad” part of town.

Gold turned to leave the car, but paused with his hand on the door handle and turned back to look at her. “Thank you, Miss French. Not just for the ride, but for the...suggestions.” He gave a wry smile. “I’m not sure I’m ready to become a multi-purpose shop owner, but you’ve given me a lot to think about in terms of the future.”

“You are most welcome.” She grinned, then turned her expression serious. “And please don’t be afraid to ask if you need anything. When the weather’s bad I’m more than happy to drive you home, and even pick you up if you have no way to get to the college. Shoot me an email, I get them on my phone. Or better yet…” She scrambled around the car for a scrap of paper and came up with an old crumpled receipt from the gas station. A pen was found in the cupholder, and she scribbled her number down and handed it to him. “Here’s my cell number. Call or text if you need a ride, or just want to talk to someone. I mean it.”

“That’s very kind of you,” he said as he took the piece of paper and folded it carefully, tucking it safely into his jacket pocket. “I’ll...keep it in mind.”

“Hey,” she said gently, almost in a whisper, “I know I’m your professor and you’re my student, but I’d also like to consider us friends. It’s a small town, and I’m sure to see you around the library even after I no longer see you in class. I hope we’ll continue to talk after the semester is over.”

“Friends.” He looked at her and smiled, and his eyes seemed somehow larger than they had just moments before, brows curved upward in an almost cartoonish look of pure hope. “I’d like that. I, uh, don’t…” he ducked his head, no longer looking into her eyes, and his voice wavered slightly as he confided, “I haven’t exactly made any friends here yet.”

“Well I’m happy to be the first!” she stuck out her hand, pleased when he grasped it and gave it a firm shake while looking up at her once again.

“Well,” he said, suddenly looking a little bit awkwardly embarrassed, “thanks again for the ride. I should let you get home.” And with that he popped open the car door and levered himself out with his cane, cringing a little as the rain began pelting him.

“See you in class!” Belle called out with a wave. “Or the library!”

“Yes,” he replied, smiling. “See you!” He shut the car door and splashed his way to the relative protection of the tattered awning over his building’s entrance.

Belle waited until he was safely inside before driving off.

 

* * *

 

 

Mind still whirring from her conversation with Mr. Gold, wondering yet again about the mysteries behind the man (sewing was apparently one of his skills as well - who knew?), she almost missed the noises coming from inside her apartment as she walked through the door.

The sound of a very feminine moan snapped her back to reality fast.

“Gaston?” she called out as she walked toward the living room. “Are you watching porn again? You know that stuff is so fake, it’s ridicul-” Her words died in her throat as she walked into the room and her eyes took in the scene happening before her.

“Babe!” Gaston leapt up from the couch, trying in vain to put his clothing back into some sort of order.

But all Belle could see was the woman, _girl really_ , sprawled out on the couch, _her couch_ , with her skirt hiked up around her thighs and her blouse wide open. The girl was panting and wide-eyed, looking from Belle to Gaston and back. “Gaston? Who is this? I thought you said this was your place?”

Belle felt her fists clench so tightly she was sure to have nail marks in her palms. Anger bubbled up to the surface and her vision narrowed into a single point “Yes,” she seethed, “this is his place. It’s also MY place. Did he tell you that?”

“No,” the girl squeaked as she scrambled to her feet, rapidly catching on to what was happening. “No he did NOT.” She glared at Gaston, then looked at Belle warily. “I should go.”

“Yes,” Belle said flatly. “You should.” She didn’t turn to watch as the girl gathered her things and ran out the door. She didn’t flinch at the sound of the door slamming closed. Her vision was focused on Gaston, and she wished she was capable of burning a hole through him with her glare alone. She knew just where she’d aim.

“You-you…” Gaston was sputtering, helpless. “I thought tonight was girl’s night and you’d be home late?”

“Yes, clearly you thought that. I don’t imagine you intended for me to walk in on you _cheating on me_ with Cheerleader Barbie.”

“Hey,” Gaston frowned. “Was that a crack at her age? She’s twenty-one, okay?”

“Oh, right, okay, that makes everything fine, then. She’s twenty-one.” Belle wished she could scream at him, throw things, punch, kick, and spit...but all she felt was numb.

“You weren’t supposed to be here.” he reiterated, pitifully trying to wrap his brain around the fact that he’d fucked up.

“Yes,” she said, coldly, “Yes I am supposed to be here, because girl’s night was cancelled due to Mary Margaret having the flu, which, if you’ll recall, I told you this morning while you were shoveling Frosted Flakes into your mouth. But, as usual, you were clearly not listening to a word I was saying.”

“I’m...sorry?”

“Are you?” she asked, and she found that she genuinely meant it as a question and not an accusation. Her anger deflated just as quickly as it had flared. “Are you really? Or are you only sorry that you got caught?” Belle crossed her arms over her chest, feeling a little defensive now that anger wasn’t fueling her. “This really hasn’t been working for a while, has it?”

Gaston’s mouth opened and closed a few times, his expression unsure. “I…” but he trailed off, as though he too was just entirely unsure of what to say.

“Yeah,” she sighed, surprised at how easy it was to feel absolutely nothing. Shock, the rational part of her brain supplied, it’s shock. The only thing she was certain of right now was that she couldn’t spend another minute in his presence. Her coat was still on, her car keys were still in her hand, and there was no reason she needed to.

“I can’t be here right now,” she stated simply. “I’m leaving.”

She could hear him start to protest, asking where she’d go, and if she needed her things, and although a small part of her realized he had a point - the larger, less able to care part ignored him as she closed the door behind her.


	4. Chapter 4

Gold felt exhausted, but antsy - that same emotional fatigue mixed with the troubled, jittery anxiety that he often felt after a phone conversation with Milah and Neal. He missed his son, and, even though things hadn’t been good with Milah for a long time, he still missed their former life. There’d been happiness there, at one point, and he longed to erase the years since it had stagnated and go back to simpler times. But those times didn’t include Neal, and he wouldn’t trade the joy of fatherhood for anything.

He’d called on a whim this time, after having a long day that left him feeling more down than usual, followed by the interesting and uplifting conversation he’d had with Miss French in her car. For the first time in a while he’d felt that there was hope for the future, and he needed to hear his son’s little voice to remind him what he was fighting for. Milah had, of course, berated him for calling at a time outside his regular scheduled weekly call, and at a time when Neal was apparently supposed to be getting ready for bed. It wouldn’t do, she’d chided, to upset his routine.

When he had hung up the phone he’d collapsed onto the bed and sobbed, not caring if it didn’t seem the sort of thing a grown man should do. Neal was too young to understand why his papa wasn’t with him, and the boy often asked when he was coming home. It felt like a punch in the gut every time, and trying to simplify a complicated explanation of divorce was getting more and more emotionally draining. He knew he couldn’t count on Milah to reassure the boy that his father still loved him. He wasn’t sure he could even count on Milah to give their son the proper care and attention he needed. She’d never hurt him or outright neglect him, he was certain of that, but she’d never made an effort to connect with Neal on his level, and some of the things his son mentioned on the phone set off alarm bells in his head. It seemed the boy was often put in a room alone, left to sit in front of the TV or make his own entertainment with the mountain of toys Milah seemed to think could buy his love rather than giving him the affection he craved. Gold didn’t want his son to be a lonely little boy like he himself had been. He knew it has been his papa’s choice to leave him, and he couldn’t bear the thought of Neal believing the same of his own father. He had to get a respectable, permanent, decent-paying job and a nicer flat so that the courts would agree to grant him custody. He needed his son and his son needed him.

All Gold wanted to do was sleep, but that wasn’t something his body and mind seemed willing to let him do. He’d been lying in bed for over an hour, staring at nothing and wishing for unconsciousness, but with a sigh he faced the realization that it just wasn’t going to happen.

Maybe a walk would help. A glance at the window told him that the rain had stopped, and the fresh night air might help clear his mind. Groaning, he rose from the bed, slipped on his shoes and his coat, and grabbed his cane. If nothing else, he mused as he closed his apartment door behind him, the walk would at least help keep his ankle from stiffening after the extra strain that had been put on it earlier. Not, of course, that he’d ever complain about the reason for the extra strain. The feel of Miss French in his arms, even if it was accidental in nature, had been unexpected but definitely not unwelcome, and he couldn’t stop his mind from replaying those few seconds where he swore he saw her glance at his lips. He was attracted to her, he admitted to himself, and though he knew it was wrong for reasons he’d already told himself again and again, being with her, talking to her, and, god, _touching_ her had felt so very _not_ wrong. 

Maybe a walk and a drink, he decided as he came upon the glow on neon reflecting off of wet asphalt. The Rabbit Hole was a dive bar of the lowest quality, but they served good cheap alcohol, and had nice high-backed booths where he could nurse a beer or two in private while he sat and contemplated the shambles that his life had become.

The bar smelled terrible, yet familiar in a strangely comforting sort of way. The scents of beer, stale cigarette smoke from where it blew in from the smokers standing outside whenever the door opened, and the dank, musty scent of upholstery and decor that hadn’t been cleaned or updated in decades assaulted his senses, and he smiled. These dark little hole-in-the-wall places were the same all over the world. 

He ordered a beer, then moved to find himself a booth where he could quietly observe the rest of the bar. But as he passed the row of booths, a familiar, and entirely unexpected, figure caught his attention.

“Miss French?” She was sitting alone, a half-empty beer glass in front of her and several empty ones next to it. Her fingers were idly playing in the condensation on the glass as she stared, unfocused, at the table. She looked utterly miserable.

Her eyes rose to meet his, and, when recognition sparked in her sluggish brain, she grinned. “Mr. Gold! Fancy seeing you here! Are you drinking away your emotions too?”

“Uh…” he wasn’t sure what to say to that. Clearly she’d been drinking for a while, judging from the glassy look in her eyes. Or maybe she’d been crying. At any rate, she was definitely drunk, or at the very least well on her way there.

“Join me?” she motioned to the seat across from her in the booth, then frowned. “Unless you don’t want to. I wouldn’t blame you. Nobody wants to be around me tonight.”

Well, now, that wouldn’t stand. “Miss French, I would like nothing more than to be in your company,” he said as he slid into the seat across from her.

“Really?” her eyes lit up. “You mean that?”

“I do, yes,” he replied with a firm nod. He wasn’t sure just how drunk she was, but he thought it best to keep his answers as short and simple as possible.

“Good,” she grinned, a little sloppily. “That’s good. I like your company too.”

Well. That was nice to hear. Before he could contemplate the warm feeling that had welled up in his chest at her simple statement, she suddenly let out a shaky sob and flopped her head down onto her folded arms.

“Miss French? Are you...okay?”

She snorted and raised her head just enough to glare at him. “Do I look okay?”

Nope, that glare really shouldn’t be as adorable as he found it, he was certain. “Frankly? You look miserable. Is...something the matter?”

“No,” she barked out a bitter-sounding laugh, “Nothing at all is the matter. Just that I caught my boyfriend cheating on me with some tall leggy bimbo.” She frowned, then sighed. “No, that’s not fair. HE’S the bastard. I don’t think she even knew he was in a relationship. Poor girl.”

“Oh,” Gold said, stunned. “Well, if ever there was a good reason to get thoroughly pissed, that’s it.” He lifted his glass and took a long drink in solidarity. 

She was looking at him, eyes calculating. “You understand,” she said - a statement, not a question.

“Yes,” he nodded, taking another (smaller, this time) sip of his beer.

“Is that why….?” she trailed off, and he could see her mind working to figure out what exactly she wanted to ask. Why he was in Storybrooke? Why he was separated from his son? Why he was here in this bar right now?”

“Yes,” he said again, and she glared at him suspiciously.

“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he shrugged, “the answer is probably yes.”

“So,” she said, glumly, “you’re divorced?”

Now it was his turn for bitter laughter. “Bit more complicated than that. ‘Separated with intent to divorce’ is the official terminology I think. Something like that, anyway. It’s all a technicality at this point. We’re drawing out the divorce until I can apply for citizenship and no longer need to be on her visa. I’m not sure about the legality of any of it, but Milah’s the lawyer, so I trust her to know which loopholes to exploit.”

“Oh,” Belle frowned.

“That’s why I want a better job. I’m not exactly ashamed of the cannery, but it often tends to be temporary work, and I need something that not only pays better but looks better. I also need a better place to live. Because,” he sighed, once again feeling every bit of the emotional exhaustion of the past few years, “I want custody of our son. Milah doesn’t want him, not really, she just has him right now to spite me.”

“That’s...awful. And you’re not worried that she’ll try to screw you over somehow?”

“Not really,” he shrugged. “Milah is many things, but she’s not stupid. It’s in her best interest to keep me in the country in case she needs to dump Neal somewhere so she can run around the world with her new boyfriend, and she knows as well as I do that she doesn’t want primary custody of him long-term. She’s just shoving it in my face that I’m a failure.”

“No!” Belle almost shouted. “You are NOT a failure! You’re GOOD. A good person, a good student...you’re...you’re just GOOD, okay?”

He grinned at her outburst and lowered his head, embarrassed. “And you,” he replied, avoiding the topic by changing it, “are distracting us from talking about your bastard of a boyfriend.”

“Ugh!” she dropped her chin into her hand, jumping a little as her elbow slid in the condensation puddle from her beer. She glared at the table until he slid a napkin over to her and she remembered what to do with it. She was an adorable drunk, he decided, though he knew now was not the time or the place.

Her breath blew out in a woosh as her flopped her head back into her hand. Her face went from angry to sad and she sniffled a little. “Twelve years,” she sighed. “We were together twelve years. We were high school sweethearts. All the stereotypical junk, ya know?”

Gold nodded, though he didn’t know, exactly.

“And you want to know the worst part?”

She paused, and he realized she was actually waiting for an answer.

“Sure. What’s the worst part?”

“I’m not even mad.” She frowned. “Well, no, I am mad, but I mean...I’m not ‘whoa is me it’s the end of the world’ mad. I should be, shouldn’t I?”

There was no way he was qualified to answer that question, despite sharing a similar experience. He settled on a generic statement. “Everyone processes things in different ways.”

“True,” she nodded as though he’d offered up some sage wisdom. “But I think...I think part of me just feels relief. There wasn’t really any passion anymore. I thought that was just how these things go. Comfortable, you know? I thought I was happy. Happy enough. But now I think I wanted something else. I think what I thought was a comfortable relationship was just two people sharing a space and little else. We weren’t a team...it wasn’t a true sort of partnership. I’m not sure I even loved him anymore, and I don’t think I have for a long time. We were just going through the motions.”

Gold nodded. “People change. You either love and respect each other enough to accept it and adapt, knowing that you’re changing to them as well, or you keep pretending there’s still something there because even though you’re no longer in love the thought of being without them seems frightening.”

“That’s it!” Belle exclaimed, drunkenly shocked by his apparent ability to read her mind. “Is that how it was with you and your wife?”

And no, he was definitely too sober for this conversation, but he wasn’t about to get drunk when she needed someone to talk to and possibly get her home.

“We were a bit more complicated than that, I suppose, but basically...yes. My ankle was injured in an accident, and it took a long time to heal. I wasn’t able to work, and I wasn’t the easiest person to get along with. I was irritable and snappish for a long time, and became depressed when my ankle could no longer heal any further. I took on the responsibility of caring for our son while Milah worked. She resented me, and I wasn’t entirely blameless in the whole thing. I paid more attention to Neal than to her, treating him as my reason for getting out of bed in the morning, and she felt like she was in second place, always ignored. She was exhausted by the end of the day, and she came home to a distant husband and a son who only wanted his papa. So she turned to someone else for attention.” He sighed. “I wanted to try to make it work, up until her confession of infidelity. At that point it was clearly over.”

“And now you’re here, and depressed all over again.” She looked distraught.

He wasn’t sure what to say to that. He couldn’t deny it, but he was confused by how upset it made her. “I’m...coping.”

“No,” Belle shook her head back and forth for emphasis, “you’re always so sad. Always so down on yourself. When I first met you I thought ‘now here’s a man who’s been broken by life’ and it’s so awful because you’re so NICE.”

Gold was torn between feeling touched that she thought so highly of him, and feeling mildly offended that she’d taken one look at him and pegged him a hopeless wreck. Mostly though, he was feeling a little worried that her drunken honesty would cause her to say something she might be embarrassed about tomorrow.

“Miss French, I think maybe you’ve had enough, if you think I’m always nice.” He said it with a self-deprecating smile, hoping she’d not think him overstepping his bounds by suggesting she cut herself off. “Can I call a cab for you, or walk you home?”

“Nah,” she waved him off. “I’ve got a car. And call me Belle, jeez. We’re not in class, we’re drinking.”

“Okay, Belle, but you are definitely not driving. Give me your keys, and I’ll take you home.”

“Nope!” she said, finishing the last of her beer in a long gulp and putting the glass down on the table a little more firmly than was necessary. “I can’t go home tonight. He’s there. He was with HER there. I know I’ll have to figure something out tomorrow, but for tonight I just can’t be there.”

Oh. “Well, I’ll take you wherever you want to go. A friend’s house?”

Belle shook her head, and dropped it onto the table again. “I don’t want to bother any of my friends,” she muttered. “Mary Margaret is sick, Ruby’s out with a new boyfriend tonight, and there's nobody else I want to see. I’m not in the mood. Any one of them will want to spoon feed me ice cream while ranting about men, and I’m not up for that. I don’t want to talk about it anymore, I just want to spend five minutes not thinking about Gaston with his hands up some other girl’s skirt.” She shuddered. “I’ll probably just go to the library. There are beanbag chairs in the kid’s section. I can sleep there.”

No, that was definitely not what was going to happen. An idea formed in his head. A crazy, stupid, very bad idea that he definitely should not present to her as an option. But he was going to do it anyway. 

“Mis-Belle,” he corrected, “you said earlier that you’d like us to be friends, right?” At her nod, he continued. “Well then you do have one friend who would not be bothered in the least by your company, and who would definitely not spoon ice cream into your mouth while complaining about men.”

Realization made its way across her face. “You...want me to stay with you?”

“Only if you want to and feel comfortable with the idea. My place isn’t much, but it’s better than a beanbag chair. Marginally.”

She appeared to think it over for a few moments, then nodded. “Okay.”

“Good,” he stated, “uh...good.” Having now managed to solve her problem of where to go, he was utterly at a loss as to what to say, or how he was going to play host to her without feeling completely, hopelessly awkward about it all. One thing at a time though. He’d worry about all that when they actually got there. Swigging back the last of his beer, he slid from the booth and held out his hand to her, waiting for her car keys. She misunderstood the gesture, and took his hand instead, using it to pull herself out of the booth on somewhat unsteady legs. 

“Thanks,” she said as she regained her balance.

“You’re welcome,” he chuckled, “but I was actually hoping you’d hand over your keys. I’m definitely driving.”

Belle scoffed and began digging in her bag. “Are you okay to drive?”

“Me?” he laughed, “I only had the one beer. Of course I’m fine. And anyway, I’m Scottish,” he joked.

“Oh, well,” she rolled her eyes, “I must have missed where nationality had anything to do with alcohol tolerance. As an Australian, I think I win, if that’s the case.”

He made a “pfft” sound and shook his head, but he couldn’t help but grin at her. “You’re barely Australian, dearie, and you’re a tiny thing who I’m assuming hasn’t had anything in her stomach tonight but, what...four beers? Five? Forgive me for sounding childish about this, but I definitely win.” He held out his hand more insistently. “Keys.”

“Fine,” she huffed, and held up the keys. She was about to hand them to him, but then pulled them back, a concerned and suspicious look on her face. “Wait, do you even know how to drive in this country?”

“Oh for…” he sighed, but couldn’t help smiling. “Yes, I’m perfectly capable of keeping the car on the right side of the road. I don’t have a car here, but I did drive in Boston, AND,” he kept going when he could see she was about to make another protest, “I have a current license, so please stop looking for ways to keep me away from your car and hand over the keys.”

The glare she shot him as she slapped her keys into his hand was far more adorable than he thought it had any right to be. “Watch it. I’m still your professor, you know. I could still fail you.”

“No you couldn’t,” he laughed, “I do excellent work, remember?”

“HA!” she pointed at him and grinned. “I got you to admit it!”

“No-o, there is no way you planned that. You, Miss French, are drunk.” He shook his head at her, but he knew there was a wide grin on his face to match hers. He found it so much easier to talk to her and joke with her while he felt he had the advantage of sobriety. Under ordinary circumstances and he often felt she could see right through him, and having her be so open and uninhibited made him feel more on her level.

“Well I still know an opportunity when I see one,” she said with a wink before turning and walking toward the door, leaving him a flustered mess in her wake. She wasn’t flirting with him, was she? “You coming?” she called as she looked back over her shoulder at him. “You have the keys, remember?”

Shaking his head to clear it, he smiled and followed her out the door.

 

Once at his apartment, he felt even less sure that inviting her to stay was a good idea.

“Well, this is it,” he gestured to the meager space, while looking around in an attempt to view it from an outside perspective. It was small and sparse, and the paint could use touching up, but overall it was clean and tidy and he supposed that counted for something. The space was laid out as one large square: a main room taking up half of it, and the other half divided up into a small kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom. “I’d give you a tour, but I think you can see where everything is.”

“It’s really very nice,” she said with a smile, and he didn’t think she was lying for his sake.

“Feel free to make yourself at home,” he said as he unlaced and kicked off his boots and hung his jacket on a hook next to the door. She followed suit, toeing out of her impossibly high heels and hanging her jacket next to his. “I’ll just, uh, go put some fresh sheets on the bed for you.”

“What?” her expression was truly puzzled, before realization dawned across her face. “Oh, no...I’ll take the couch. I’m not kicking you out of your bed.”

“And _I’m_ not letting you sleep on the couch. You’re a guest.”

“I’m not a guest,” she said as she shook her head and huffed out a humorless chuckle. “I’m a poor stray with nowhere else to go who you’re taking pity on. Beggers can’t be choosers, and this couch looks very comfortable.” To prove her point, she sat down on it and curled her legs up underneath her. “See? Very comfy.”

He just stared at her, aghast. “You think this is pity? Do you think I’d do this for just anyone?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged.

“Well the answer is no, I wouldn’t. I think I mentioned that I don’t really have many friends. I don’t trust people easily, and I’m not the type to bring home stray drunk women out of pity.” He sat down next to her and caught her eyes with his, hoping his sincerity was showing plainly on his face. “But you? There’s something about you that makes it so easy for me to open up and talk to, and even laugh with. You’re…” he stopped, suddenly aware of what he was saying, and being hit with the realization that it wasn’t just basic attraction that he felt toward her. She was quickly worming her way into his heart, and he had just confessed that he trusted her. It hit him all at once, and staring into her wide blue eyes was quickly driving home the point he’d so far been somehow oblivious to. He had feelings for her. Romantic feelings. She was still looking at him, waiting for him to continue from where he’d abruptly trailed off in the middle of a sentence. “Well, we’re friends, yeah?” Friends. That was safe. 

“Yeah,” she smiled, but it didn’t seem to reach her eyes. “For the record, I...I like it when you open up more to me. Our little talks before class tend to be the highlight of my day. There are these moments where it’s like you forget to be sad and withdrawn, and you make jokes, and you laugh, and you’re practically an entirely different person.” She gazed up at him, and this time her smile lit up her whole face. She was breathtaking. “I like when that happens. I like the thought that maybe I helped make it happen. But I like all of you, all the time, even when you’re tired and sad. And,” she hesitated, eyes boring into his as though she was looking for something in them. Whatever it was she saw made her lips twitch upward into a tiny smile and she continued, almost in a whisper, “I don’t want to think about what will happen when you’re no longer my student and you won’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to. I do want to be friends, and if that’s all it ever is I’m okay with that, but I...I think I want...more.”

He’d barely processed what she was saying when she suddenly surged forward and pressed her mouth to his. He froze, momentarily stunned by what was happening, before his brain caught up and instinct took over. His eyes fluttered shut as he melted into the kiss, slanting his lips more firmly over hers and sighing softly as her hands came up to tangle in his hair. His own hands moved to caress her face, cradling it gently as he tilted her head for a better angle. With a moan of “Elliot,” oh god, she pushed against his shoulders, using him as leverage to swing herself around to straddle his thighs. He could feel himself stirring in his rapidly tightening jeans, and hoped she wouldn’t move any closer and end up finding out just how much this kiss was affecting him. Part of him knew this was happening much too fast, but the blood feeding his brain had fled south very quickly, and it was hard to focus on anything other than the feel of her in his arms. She’d managed to pull his bottom lip in between hers, and he gasped as he felt her teeth graze at the sensitive skin, the gentle nip followed by a quick caress of her tongue. When she pulled her tongue back he followed with his own, sliding into her mouth to taste her. And oh, fuck, this was much, much better than any dream. It was only when he realized he could still taste the beer on her tongue that he came to his senses, and he pulled back as quickly as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water directly onto his crotch.

“Belle!” he groaned, panting from the kiss as he gently lifted her away from him. “We can’t do this. We can’t.”

“Oh,” she whispered, her entire body crumpling into the couch. “I’m sorry. I thought...I thought you wanted this too.”

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, knowing she’d heard him when she raised an eyebrow ever so slightly. “I do want this. God, Belle, I want this. But not now. Not here, like this. You’re drunk.”

“I’m not that drunk,” she frowned, “I know what I’m doing, and I’ll definitely remember it in the morning.”

He shook his head, adamant. “It doesn’t matter. If this...if this happens, I want it to be when you are one-hundred percent sober.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “You also just caught your long-term boyfriend with another woman only hours ago, and it’s much too soon and you’ve had too much alcohol for you to be making these decisions right now.”

Now she just looked angry. “You don’t get to make my decisions for me! It’s not up to you to decide when is too soon for what.”

“It is when I’m also affected,” he shot back. “There are two of us here, and I’m not comfortable with it, all right?” He tried to plead with her through his eyes. “It’s not just me worrying that I’m taking advantage; it’s not just about protecting you from a potentially bad decision...I’m also protecting myself. You think I want to feel like a sloppy rebound?” He held his hand up in a calming gesture when it looked like she was about to protest. “I’m not saying that’s what this is, but this isn’t how I’d like something to start between us, if there’s something here. We’ve barely just agreed to friendship, and I’m too old and not in the state of mind to want a quick fumble that we figure out later. I want to do things properly, and I want...no, I _need_ , to take a step back and slow down.”

“Oh,” she whimpered, looking stricken. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. I’m sorry.”

“It’s late,” he sighed. “We’re both tired, and not thinking clearly. Can we save this topic for another time?”

“Yeah,” she replied, voice small, and he cursed himself for making her feel worse.

“Hey,” he whispered, reaching over to take her hand in his. “I’m sorry for upsetting you. You do know this is all very sudden, surprising, and terribly flattering, though, don’t you?”

She smiled. Weakly, but he counted it. “For me too, you know.”

“Sure,” he snorted in disbelief. “A sad old man mooning over his young and beautiful college professor. That’s not creepy or pathetic.”

“You think that’s what’s happening?” she frowned again. “You’re not creepy, pathetic, or old, you know. I liked you from the moment I met you. And…wait,” she paused, then turned her eyes up to look at him in wonder. “You think I’m beautiful?”

“Well, I have eyes, don’t I?” he mumbled, ducking his head as he suddenly felt embarrassed about everything that had just happened. He wasn’t used to this much talking about himself, or talking in general. He’d said more in one night than he was pretty sure he’d said in the past four months combined.

“Thank you,” she said softly, squeezing his hand, “for everything.” 

He wasn’t sure what to say, so he just squeezed her hand back.

“If it’s not too weird...could we just lie here for a minute? Could you…” she hesitated, biting her lip in the way she did sometimes when she was thinking.

“What?” he prodded, “it’s okay, ask me anything.”

“Could you hold me? Nothing else, just...I just want that comfort, you know?”

“Of course,” he whispered, reaching up briefly to push a strand of hair out of her eyes and smile at her. “Come here.”

He held his arms out to her and she folded herself into them with a soft sigh. It felt good, this simple human contact. He hadn’t realized how starved for touch he’d been. Gently, he leaned them both back to lie on their sides, tucking her head under his chin. She was sandwiched between the back of the couch and him, and he hoped it gave her the comfort she sought.

A few minutes later he heard her breathing even out as sleep overtook her. She would really be more comfortable on the bed, he knew, and he nudged her gently to wake her up and convince her to move. She didn’t budge. She didn’t even stir as he carefully extracted himself from around her and stood up, reaching for his cane and hating yet again that he needed it. He wished he could pick her up and carry her to the bed, but he knew his ankle wouldn’t allow it. Instead, he’d just have to make her as comfortable on the couch as he could. He retrieved a blanket from his bed and tucked it around her, then poured a glass of water and set it and a bottle of aspirin on the side table next to the couch. If she woke up before he did and was nursing a nasty hangover, at least she wouldn’t have to move very far.

With one last look to make sure she seemed comfortable enough, he sighed and went to bed. His mind eventually stopped contemplating the strange and unexpected direction his night had taken long enough for him to succumb to sleep. 


	5. Chapter 5

Belle awoke to the sound of a small clatter, and a distinctly Scottish voice swearing. She blinked, taking a few seconds to remember what had happened the night before. As it all came back to her she groaned in embarrassment, sure she’d made a complete ass of herself.

“I’m sorry!” he called from the kitchen, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

She sat up and immediately regretted it as she grabbed her throbbing head and groaned again, this time in pain.

“Side table!” he called out with a knowing chuckle. She turned and found a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin. Bless him. She shook out two pills and tossed them back, draining the entire water glass in one long chug. Her mouth still felt dry and fuzzy.

“I swear I usually hold my alcohol better than that,” she mumbled, mostly to herself.

“You probably usually pair it with solid food.” She jumped a little at the sound of his voice, not having noticed that he’d moved to stand next to the couch, and he smiled in apology for startling her. At the mention of food, her stomach gurgled and rolled to remind her that she hadn’t put anything but beer in it in the better part of a day. As he’d correctly guessed, she’d skipped dinner last night, too shocked and upset to eat, and had gone straight to the bar. Ugh, she felt awful.

She heard him chuckle at the sound of her stomach. “How does breakfast sound?”

“Amazing. Breakfast sounds amazing.” She turned to sit up further, but the throbbing in her head increased. “Just as soon as the aspirin kicks in.”

With a nod, he turned to head back to the kitchen. “How do you feel about omelets?” he called over his shoulder. “I’ve got cheese, onion, green pepper, tomato, and bacon.”

Her stomach growled its approval. “I feel very good about all of the above,” she answered with a wince, though the pain in her head was lessening.

“Good,” he replied, “because I already started heating up the pan. After I dropped it and woke you up first, of course.”

That explained the clatter.

“Uh,” Gold continued from the kitchen, gesturing toward the bathroom with the knife he was currently using to chop the onion, “if you want, feel free to use the shower. It might help you feel better, and breakfast will be ready when you’re done.”

“Thanks,” she smiled and stood, thankful that the painkillers were doing their job and she was much less wobbly than she’d felt a few minutes ago. He was right, getting cleaned up would help.

In the bathroom she found a folded towel laid out on the counter for her, next to a bottle of shampoo, a bar of soap, and a bottle of mouthwash. He’d set out everything she might need so that she wouldn’t have to go looking for it, and the small gesture of consideration made her feel a little choked up. Gaston had never been very good about the little things, or the big things either, really, which is probably why they’d never gotten around to getting married. She swiped at her eyes as she turned the shower on and stripped out of her clothes. God, she was a wreck, if a single small act of caring could reduce her to tears.

By the time she was done she really did feel better. The steam had helped clear her head of the fogginess she’s woken up with, and washing the smell of the Rabbit Hole out of her hair had made her feel more like herself. Unfortunately she’d have to put the same clothes from yesterday back on, but her first plan for the day was to go back to her apartment, change, and gather up some of her things.

“Hey,” she greeted as she emerged from the bathroom, combing her fingers through her damp hair.

“Hey,” he returned, “feeling better?”

“Much,” she smiled and flopped down into one of the two chairs at the little table taking up a corner of the small kitchen.

“Good. Breakfast is ready.” He slid a steaming plate in front of her, then went back for his own. Her stomach growled more insistently at the smell of food, and she grabbed her fork and eagerly tucked in.

“Oh my god,” she moaned, mouth full but uncaring about manners at the moment, “this is _amazing_.”

“I’m glad you think so,” he said with a grin as he slid into the chair opposite her, “unfortunately you’ve now tasted the extent of my culinary abilities.”

“I don’t care,” she mumbled in-between bites, “you could make just this for me every day for the rest of my life and I’d die happy.”

He froze across from her, fork halfway to his open mouth, and as her words caught up to her she found herself frozen as well.

“I mean…” she tried to think of some way to end her sentence, and instead just sighed and put her fork down, knowing it would be easier if she just brought up what they were both thinking about. “I guess we should talk about last night, huh?”

“Probably,” he nodded, and stared at his plate.

“God,” she groaned and covered her face with her hands. “I basically threw myself at you. I’m so sorry, that was really embarrassing.”

“Oh,” he mumbled, and when she peeked out from between her fingers he was still looking at his plate. “I see.”

“No,” she said, realizing how he was taking her embarrassment, “I don’t think you do.” She waited until he looked at her before continuing. “I’m not sorry that I kissed you. I don’t regret that. I regret the way I went about it, and I regret putting you in the awkward position of having to slow us down. It wasn’t the sort of scenario that I’d have liked for our first kiss. I regret rushing it via alcoholic influence, instead of letting things develop naturally.”

“Oh,” he said again, but this time he was smiling.

“I do really like you,” she smiled back, “but you were right when you said I wasn’t ready for something new. I’ve never even dated anyone but Gaston. The last time I was single was twelve years ago when I was a teenager. I really don’t know what I’m doing at all.”

“Neither do I, if that helps,” he replied with a shrug. “It’s been a long time since I was on my own, and dating again isn’t something I’d even remotely thought about.”

She picked up her fork again and began poking at her omelet. “So, what should we do?”

“I don’t know,” he sighed. “I don’t want to pretend this didn’t happen. I like you too.” He paused, smiling. “That sounds so juvenile, but I don’t know how else to say it.”

She couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Yeah, I know what you mean. At least I didn’t pass you a note asking you to check yes if you like me.”

He laughed. “So we’re establishing that we’re both hopeless.”

“Seems that way,” she smiled.

“There’s, um, also the fact that you’re a professor and I’m your student. That could be a little bit strange.”

She sighed. “Yeah, we should consider that.”

There was silence for a few minutes while they ate their breakfast, each thinking of how to proceed.

“Three weeks,” she finally declared, startling him. “The semester is over in three weeks. We can take some time to think about this, and to get to know each other a little more. After that, when you’re no longer my student, we can figure out where to go from here.”

He nodded. “That sounds good.”

“Good,” she nodded back. “So we’re agreed. After the final, we’ll figure this out.” She held out her hand. “Deal?”

Grinning, he took her hand and shook it. “Deal.”

She glanced at the clock and frowned. “I should get going. I need to go back home and get some things, and have a long overdue conversation with Gaston.”

“Where will you go?” he asked, concerned, and she again found herself touched by how much he cared. “You are of course welcome to stay here for as long as you need.”

“Too tempting,” she shook her head, and smiled when she noticed him blushing. “I’m not sure yet, but I have an idea. There’s an old apartment above the library that hasn’t been used in at least a decade. It’s mostly full of boxes of old books and files. It’ll need some work, but I think I can convince the mayor to let me use it if we negotiate a good rate for rent. I plan to talk to her today, if I can, and if I get her approval I’ll start cleaning it up. It shouldn’t take more than a day or two to get it at least somewhat livable, even if I’ll be roughing it a little for a while. Sounds kind of like an adventure.”

“That sounds perfect,” he agreed as he stood and stacked their now-empty plates to carry them to the sink. “Let me know if I can help in any way. I can’t help move much for you, but I’ve got a little bit of basic plumbing and electrical knowledge, so if something doesn’t work I’d be happy to take a look at it for you and help you figure out what’s wrong, even if I can’t actually fix it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, thanks,” she replied. “If it’s a more complicated fix than what YouTube can walk me through, I’ll call you and we can cuss it out together.”

“I look forward to it,” he laughed. “But let me know how today goes, if you talk to the mayor?”

“I will,” she said with a nod. Picking up her bag, she fished through it for her phone so she could get his number. Retrieving it, she looked at the screen and frowned. “Oh no,” she groaned.

“What?” he asked, concern etched on his features.

“Gaston must have talked to his friends, who talked to their friends, and now there’s no doubt the entire town knows what happened. I have fifteen texts and three missed calls.”

“Oh yes, the perks of small town living,” he smiled sympathetically.

“Oh well,” she sighed, “they were going to find out eventually anyway, but I’m going to have a very busy day. What’s your number, so I can tell you all about it later?” He rattled off his phone number for her and she programmed it in before slipping the device back into her bag. She stepped into her shoes and shrugged into her jacket, then, before she could think better of it, she stepped up to him and tentatively put her arms around him in a hug.

“Good luck,” he said, softly, as he returned the embrace.

“Thanks,” she replied, taking a long moment to just enjoy the hug and draw strength from it before finally stepping away. “For everything. I’ll call you later.”

He nodded. “Take care, Belle.”

She couldn’t help but grin stupidly at his use of her first name as she closed the door behind her.

 

* * *

 

 

Later that night, exhausted from a day of difficult conversations but with the keys to her new apartment now hanging on her keyring, she pulled out her phone and dialed his number.

“Belle, hey,” he gently answered, and really, someday she was going to have to stop grinning at how nice the sound of him saying her name was.

“I got the apartment!” she all but shouted at him.

“Congratulations!” he replied, and she could practically hear him smiling over the phone.

“So tell me, just out of curiosity, how much do you know about squirrels? More specifically, about how to encourage them to move their nests to someplace other than your new closet?”

His laugher on the other side of the phone made all the day’s difficulties worth it.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Three weeks later, Belle punched her final grades into the computer, hit submit, and then dialed a now-familiar number.

“Hey,” he greeted her, just as he always did.

“Grades are submitted!” she declared. “You are officially no longer a student under my tutelage.”

“Great! What did I get?” he asked, and she held the phone away from her ear to glare in indignation at the little picture of him next to his contact info.

“Really?” she asked, putting the phone back to her ear, “THAT’S what’s on your mind right now?” She sighed. “You got an A, of course.”

Over the past three weeks, they’d spend time together both inside and outside of class, but always somewhere neutral; the library, or a restaurant, or just chatting in the hallway when class was over. They’d found they made good friends, and now that their agreed upon period of getting to know each other was up, she was looking forward to the possibility of making their relationship go in a different direction. Her feelings for him had only grown, and judging by the sweetly sappy looks she sometimes caught him sending her direction, the feeling was mutual.

“Soooo,” she started, drawing out the word. “Do you want to come over for dinner?”

“I, um, have a small confession to make,” he said from the other side of the phone, and she frowned, nervous butterflies dancing a jig in her stomach as all the potentially negative possibilities those words could mean ran through her head.

“Oh?” she asked, proud that her voice had only cracked a little.

“Mmhmm,” he replied. “Answer your door.”

“What?” she asked, and then jumped when she heard a knock.

Oh. OH that wonderful, beautiful man. She jumped up off the couch and threw open the door, grinning as he stood there with his phone to his ear and a bag of take-out hooked over his elbow, wearing a grin to match hers.

They stared at each other, grinning stupidly, for several long moments before they realized they were still holding their now completely unnecessary phones, and they each hung up, laughing.

“I thought I’d surprise you,” he grinned, looking somewhat sheepish, “I was already on my way up when you called.”

“Well,” she grinned back, certain that the expression was just going to be a permanent fixture on her face from now on, “you do have that impeccable timing, after all.” She took the bag from him and ushered him inside.

“I got burgers,” he said as he hung his coat over a chair by the door. She hadn’t yet managed to get a coat rack. “I hope that’s okay. I remember you mentioning how good Granny’s were, so I got you one and figured I’d try one as well.”

“Burgers sound awesome.” Her stomach growled in agreement as she snuck a fry out of the bag and popped it into her mouth. “I’m starving.”

Just then, she noticed he’d set another, larger, bag down next to the couch. “What’s that?” she pointed.

“Um...a small, slightly early, Christmas gift?” He looked a little embarrassed, and her heart soared. She loved it when he went into full awkward, stammering, sweetheart mode. “You can open it now, if you want,” he said with a shrug, trying in vain to appear nonchalant about the whole thing.

She picked up the bag gingerly, surprised by the weight of it, and set it on the couch to peel back the plastic.

“It’s not your whole Christmas present!” he nervously declared as she started to unwrap it, “I just finished it today and I thought...to celebrate the semester ending…”

She’d pulled the bag away to reveal a flat wooden...thing.

He must have caught her puzzled expression, because he moved closer to explain. “It’s a step stool,” he explained, taking it from her to demonstrate. “It folds out, see?” He pulled the boards apart and yes, she could see now how the steps unfolded and turned into a stool. “It’s small enough when folded that it can go behind a desk, or, uh, in a corner next to a chalk board.”

And OH, the intent behind the gift became clear, and she laughed. “It’s perfect,” she grinned. “You said you made this?”

“Yeah,” he nodded as he lowered his head, looking pleased but embarrassed by her praise. “From a pallet I found at the cannery. I asked if I could have it, and then it was just a matter of finding some plans and putting it together. I went to the library and printed the plans on a day you weren’t working.”

“It really is perfect,” she said again, “now I don’t have to worry about who’s going to catch me if I fall off my chair when I inevitably get stuck scheduled to a room right after a giant with an aversion to erasing the board when he leaves.”

“I’m just looking to protect my favorite professor,” he said, grinning again.

“And I’m thankful to my former favorite student,” she replied, “emphasis on the former.”

Their eyes held, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world to lean closer to him. They’d not kissed since the night in his apartment three weeks ago, and she was more than ready for their second first kiss - going about it properly this time.

He met her halfway, and their eyes closed as their lips met. She poured everything she had into the kiss, her hands reaching for him and tangling in the soft ends of his hair as his slid up her back to pull her closer. It was a slow, languid kiss, unhurried and without urgency or expectation. It was perfect. 

When they finally pulled away to breathe, Belle opened her eyes to find him gazing at her with the same intensity she knew was reflected back on her own face. “Hey,” she whispered, at a loss for what else to say.

“Hey yourself,” he whispered back. 

“That was…”

“Yeah,” he replied.

“So, are we officially...dating, now?” she asked, reveling in how new and wonderful this was.

“I hope so,” he replied, eyes shining, “because I want to do that a lot more.”

She grinned. “Me too.” Then her grin faded as she turned serious. “I don’t...I don’t think I’m ready for more than this, just yet. I still want to take things slow...if that’s okay?”

A look of relief passed over his features as he leaned forward and tenderly kissed her forehead. “I was just thinking the same thing. I want to take our time, just enjoy being together without any pressure to move faster than what we’re ready for.”

“Me too,” she smiled. “I think I’m really going to enjoy being your girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend,” he breathed, looking stunned, as though he’d not considered the word in relation to her. “I like the sound of that.”

Their lips met again, briefly, before her stomach let out a loud growl and ruined the mood. They broke apart, laughing, and Belle shook her head. “I’m sorry. I really am starving.”

“We’d better eat it before it gets cold anyway,” he said with a smile. “We have time to continue this...conversation...after dinner.”

She grinned and took his hand. “All the time in the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For AnnieVH, who prompted student/teacher, student!Gold, and broken. I LOVED this prompt, and I hope I did it even a little bit of justice. I had a lot of inspiration, but could only fit so much into this in the amount of time I had. I wanted it to be a much slower burn, and there were several ideas I wanted to include but didn't get a chance to. I'm considering a sequel to include some of the things I cut (such as Neal visiting, Gold and Belle's relationship advancing, and Gold meeting Moe).
> 
> It's also a lot choppier and rough than I'd have preferred, but sadly real life got in the way of writing and editing. I do hope you enjoy it, regardless. I had so much fun writing it!
> 
> Happy Holidays!!


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